Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) (11 page)

Now, with the ship under military rules and regulations, it was no doubt more regimented.

Entering the dining gallery, Doc saw that the formerly ostentatious tables and chairs had been replaced with long barracks-style dining tables. Men were filling these out, and others were jostling one another in the chow line.

As his dark eyes patrolled the room, the bronze man carefully scrutinized faces, seeking those with familiar lines.

He found one in an unexpected spot.

One of the ship’s stewards was dishing out corned-beef hash and potatoes, and Doc’s ever-watchful orbs fell upon him.

The steward was rather round of face, but not as round as Doc had remembered him. He was also older, and for the slightest pause the bronze man was not quite certain of his identity. Doc drifted into the chow line, picked up a cafeteria-style tray, grabbed a shiny crockery plate out of the stack, along with some utensils. Thus equipped, he worked his way up until he came to the steward in question.

The man’s name was stenciled over his right shirt pocket. It said: TUCKER.

It was all the confirmation the bronze man needed. The steward was older and while not slim, he had lost considerable weight since the last time Doc had encountered him.

Seeing the bronze man, the steward gave Doc a broad smile and said, “How are you doing, Oiler?”

For a moment, Doc experienced a mild shock, thinking he had been recognized, but the use of the seaman’s nickname erased that fear entirely.

“Doing all right,” Doc said in a low voice that mimicked that of Seamen Goines to the best of his ability, which was considerable.

“Better eat this hash while it’s still hot,” grinned Seaman Tucker. “We are running low tonight.”

“Second cook’s hash is always good,” said Doc, smiling back.

That was the extent of the exchange, and Doc took his tray to a table where he could survey the crew as they ate.

Despite loitering over his meal, he spied no more familiar faces. But the presence of the round-faced steward gave the bronze man an inkling of something. Dropping his dishes into an enameled metal tub and putting the empty tray atop a stack, he departed the dining room, and resumed his methodical search.

This time Doc concentrated his efforts on the faces of the Merchant Marines who crewed the
Northern Star
. They were a varied lot, with more than a few black faces, the Merchant Marine not going in for Jim Crow the way other branches of the service did.

He was not looking for Negro sailors, however.

Seeing Doc passing by, the Chief Engineer accosted him. “Seaman Goines, you are needed down in the engine room. Hop to it.”

“Aye-aye, chief,” said Doc.

The bronze man started in that direction, then reversed himself. He almost bumped into the Second Mate, who, seeing him seemingly at liberty, gave him yet another order.

“Have you chowed down, Oiler?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get about your duties. Make it snappy.”

By the time the third officer had ordered him to another part of the ship, the bronze man had had enough. Doc found a coil of manila rope, thrust one arm through the opening and lugged it around as if taking the line somewhere important.

Thereafter, he was left strictly alone.

Before much longer, Doc spied another familiar face. This individual was youthful, probably in his early twenties, and looked like a younger edition of Abraham Lincoln, sans the Billy goat chin whiskers.

This lank fellow was busy inspecting the canvas covers on the lifeboats, which hung from their cradles.

Doc sidled up to him, got a good look at the name on his blouse, which rather matched his recollection. Taking a chance, he walked up and asked, “Have you seen any sign of Seaman Worth?”

“Boats?” said the young man who resembled the sixteenth President of the United States. “Not in the last hour.”

“Thank you,” said Doc, moving on. By this simple ruse, he had ascertained that three of the four were on board. But the one he was most interested in encountering was Seaman Worth.

Given his thorough job of reconnoitering the ship’s decks, Doc Savage was likely to locate Worth sooner rather than later, except that he turned a corner and almost collided with a bald fellow.

The man was not entirely bald, for there were fringes on either side of his head, but these were close shaven. In the darkness of night, he might as well have been entirely hairless. He was very muscular, and his skin was brown as a coconut shell, minus the stringy hair. He wore dark glasses.

“Excuse me,” said Doc, shifting around the man.

The bald man said nothing, simply pushed forward, evidently having no wish to exchange pleasantries. He was dressed as a civilian, but one who wore the casual attire of a man who had been around boats. His shoes had gum soles, and he walked with a careful and silent tread.

Doc Savage let the man pass on, paused, and then reversed direction. He shadowed the individual to the ship’s dining room, and watched him go in.

It would not do to follow him inside since he had already eaten and been recognized as Jury Goines by the steward. Second helpings were probably not frowned upon, but he did not wish to draw attention to himself.

Doc spent the next twenty minutes trying to look busy while he waited for the bald man to reemerge.

Finally, the hairless fellow stepped into view, and took a beeline back in the direction from which he had originally come.

Moving as quietly as possible, Doc shadowed him, staying far behind, until the man came to his cabin on the B deck, port side.

Pausing to take a quick look around before entering, he saw Doc Savage rolling along, the coil of rope heavy over one shoulder, and studied him momentarily before stepping inside.

Doc took note of the cabin number—Twelve-B—and passed on, deciding that he had accomplished as much as he was going to in the guise of Seaman Goines.

The bronze man went directly to Ham Brooks’ cabin.

Chapter X

CONFUSION

BY THIS TIME, Monk Mayfair had wakened.

His first act was to check the back of his head by feel. The bandage from the bludgeoning he had earlier suffered was still in place. He winced at the sharp pain touching it brought.

There was no other wound, he discovered by gingerly groping around.

Going to the washroom mirror, Monk looked himself over and discovered no bruise or lacerations. That was when he felt a soreness on his neck.

“Doc done this,” he said at last. The memory of his last conscious thoughts flooded back. Monk weighed about two hundred and sixty pounds and the unseen person who had arrested his headlong flight had stopped him cold. He had not been struck upon the head, yet he had lost consciousness with almost instantaneous speed.

All that spelled Doc Savage, who apparently had robbed the homely chemist of his natural senses by pressing down on the nerve centers of his virtually non-existent neck and applying surgical pressure.

Monk spent half a minute growling into the mirror, expressing his anger, but the raw emotion soon evaporated. As much as he resented being waylaid, Doc Savage was his chief. He could not remain upset with him for long. Their association was too deep and significant.

“Aw, I’ll just take it out on that shyster somehow,” he told himself.

Ambling to the door, he expected it to be locked. It was not.

Since it was dark, Monk slipped out, looking both ways before exiting.

It was obviously night, and the ship well underway. Monk had already realized that from the way the cabin had lurched and sank as it rode the heaving waves of the open Atlantic.

Upon reaching the weather deck, Monk noticed the steadily blowing wind and the feel of the ocean.

“Uh-oh,” he said to himself. “Storm brewin’.”

It was the hairy chemist’s notion to seek out Doc and Ham, but he had not progressed very far when he realized that he had no inkling of their cabin numbers. This created a quandary.

Modest brow furrowing, Monk peered about. Had he not been insensate for so long and suffering from a mild concussion before that, the apish chemist would have sooner realized that he was barging about without benefit of a disguise. Not that it was an easy thing to mask his inordinately long forearms and apish outline. Hardly. A circus tent could not conceal his gorilla-like physique.

Monk would have turned around and retreated to his cabin if it were not for his nose.

The homely chemist’s nose was a mashed-down thing that might once have projected more forcefully, but it had taken repeated batterings from horny-knuckled fists over the years. It had also been broken several times and pounded flat a time or two, which added to its simian configuration.

Despite all the damage that had been done to his nostrils over an active career, Monk’s sense of smell verged on the animalistic. Hesitating on the lower deck, he caught a whiff of a familiar hair oil. It was an expensive brand, one unlikely to be wafting about on the deck of a Merchant Marine ship. Monk knew it well. It was Ham Brooks’ favorite hair preparation.

“He’s gotta be around close somewheres,” muttered Monk.

Following his dilating nostrils, Monk sniffed his way forward, and happened upon a piece of luck that started out being good, but ended up being very bad indeed.

Monk’s sense of smell brought him around the corner where he discovered Ham’s shoes sitting outside his cabin door.

The dapper lawyer was a creature of habit, and he was accustomed to sending out his shoes for shining when staying in hotels or traveling on ships. The habit died hard with Ham, even in these lean days of wartime shortages, sugar, butter and gas rationing.

There was no possibility of a steward coming by to collect shoes for shining and returning them in the morning. No such amenities were provided aboard the
Northern Star
. No doubt the leaving out of the shoes was an act of absentmindedness on Ham’s part.

But there they were.

Bending over, Monk stooped with his entire upper body and picked up the shoes, ascertaining to a certainty that they belonged to Ham Brooks. Inset into the soles was the initial B. Peculiar place for a monogram, but it had a definite purpose. The
B
would leave a mark wherever Ham walked, provided he walked in soil, or even wet pavement. The initial made it easier to track Ham, should he ever go missing.

Monk had a momentary urge to throw the footwear overboard, as a way of getting Ham’s goat. But he thought better of it. Another certain sign that Monk wasn’t thinking very clearly, for he rarely passed up an opportunity to vex the dapper lawyer.

Straightening, Monk applied rusty knuckles on the steel door and knocked briskly. He rapped two short and one long, which was a signal.

Features alarmed, Ham threw open the door, looked at Monk, noticed his shoes and demanded, “What are you doing with my shoes!”

“You left them out to be shined, didn’t you?”

Various expressions paraded across Ham’s chiseled features, going from puzzlement to a flustered twitching, and finally settled into red-faced embarrassment.

Since he could hardly deny the lapse in judgment, Ham snapped instead, “Give me those and get in here before you are seen!”

Monk did both, and the door was clapped shut.

“Where’s Doc?” asked Monk, looking around.

“I do not know,” confessed Ham. “I was just about to pay him a visit, since I have not heard from him since before nightfall.”

The formerly elegant attorney was still tricked out in his van Dyke facial adornment, artificial wrinkles and threadbare attire.

Monk asked, “Who are you supposed to be now?”

“Brom Van Bummel, if you must know.”

“Well, you didn’t fool me.”

“You are not the one I am trying to fool. Besides,” added Ham archly, “you were born in that low state.”

“At least I ain’t turned gray from guilt for havin’ robbed all those widows and orphans you have sued over the years,” retorted Monk.

Ham purpled. He would have whacked the homely chemist over his bullet skull with his sword cane except that the item was not at hand.

Instead, Ham said, “Come with me, you inveterate liar. Doc should have finished his work of searching the ship by now.”

HAM LED the way, Monk following behind, trying to stay in the shadows of stanchions and gangways. It was hopeless, like putting a full-grown gorilla in a football jersey in the hopes that he would not stand out in a crowd.

For all that, they managed to reach Doc’s cabin without encountering any difficulties.

Stopping before the door, Ham rapped two short and one long, which brought no results.

“He must not be back as yet,” murmured Ham.

“Risky to sneak back to your cabin,” suggested Monk.

“No need. Doc gave me a spare key in the event it was needed,” explained Ham, producing said key.

Opening the door, he invited Monk to enter first.

Upon stepping in, the simian chemist found the light switch, snapped it on, and saw the black man lying in the bunk.

“For crying out loud!” he burst out.

Shouldering in behind him, Ham Brooks quickly threw the door shut and laid narrowing eyes on the same figure. The dapper lawyer’s mobile mouth made fish shapes as he tried to synchronize his brain with his tongue.

Walking over to the sleeping figure, Monk looked down and saw a very large Negro, who was obviously out cold.

“Who is this swabbie?” demanded Monk.

Ham found his tongue, although it proved shaky in operation.

“I believe that is Doc Savage, but I am not quite certain of it.”

Turning, Monk stared at Ham questioningly.

Ham explained, “I encountered this man earlier in the evening, and mistook him for Doc Savage. But he quickly disabused me of that notion.”

“So this ain’t Doc?”

“Now I am not so certain,” admitted Ham, fingering his white-whiskered chin. “If this is not Doc Savage, what is he doing lying in Doc’s bunk?”

The two men examined the sleeping figure and Monk prodded the slumberer in the shoulder with a blunt finger. The man did not rouse.“If this is Doc Savage,” said Ham, “he’s out cold.”